


Your Biggest Mistake

by alcoholicberry



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Genderbending, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Smut, M/M, Multi, Post Reichenbach, additional tags as I continue, body swapping, gypsy curses, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:03:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcoholicberry/pseuds/alcoholicberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been three years since Sherlock Holmes jumped from St. Barts and he's finally caught up to the last man in Moriartys web; Sebastian Moran. Tracking him from Romania to London, Sherlock needs to solve a case to get himself back in funds. The only problem is, he's crossed a family where you cross one you cross them all. Distraught over her grandson's imprisonment, a woman puts a curse on Sherlock. </p><p>The next day finds Sherlock in a state, not knowing how to deal with his new transport. And how does Mary Morstan feel about waking up in the body of a lanky detective who is supposedly dead?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

_Targoviste, Romania_

His haggard reflection stared back at him in the glass of the china cabinet as he looked over the obvious clues. Trails of clean wood, surrounded by dust, where items were regularly shifted. He sniffed the air, the consistent stale smell of mold and damp hanging all about the cabinet. Taking a measured step around the wooden shelf, he reached a hand out and felt at the wood paneling just beside. There was something; something that he was missing, something that this whole case depended on.

Then he spotted it, just along the pressed in section of the wooden panel. A crooked smile spread across his lips.

Spinning around on the pad of his foot, he walked towards the table directly behind and pushing aside the various objects, taking up a handful of what he’s been looking for regardless of the cries of outrage. Ashes in his hand he turned back to the wall and held his palm out flat. Lining up with the strip on the wall he leaned forward slightly and blew.

The ashes linger in the air for only a second before they’re swept through the crack in the wall.

“The files are behind the cabinet,” he said triumphantly, standing up straight once again and rubbing his hands together to rid them of the remaining ash. “You’ll find a secret room if you move it away.”

The victim of his deductions gives a small yelp from the corner but otherwise doesn’t protest much as two burly police are standing on either side of him.

One of the inspectors’ takes a step forward and examines the spot he was only moments ago pointing out. There’s a small crack of light against the paneling that otherwise wouldn’t have been noticed and the inspector skims his fingers over it before turning to give a nod to the two men accompanying him. They move towards him and wait till the space is cleared before taking to either side of the cabinet and shifting it out of the way.

The weight of the cabinet is nearly nonexistent as the only content are the trinkets of supposed value showing through the grimy glass. They shift forward as the two men pull the cabinet away from the wall so that there’s enough room for a body to fit in between.

“Watch him.” The inspector grumbled, pointing to the perpetrator. Then he stepped behind the cabinet and pushed gently on the wall. When nothing moved, he raised an eyebrow and looked back over to the strange man standing off to his side.  
  
“There must be a latch,” the taller man replied to the unspoken question, stepping forward and beginning to feel along the wall. “Something that will trigger the wall to open and show us what’s behind the wood panels.”

It took several moments before he noticed the picture frame hanging lopsided on its nail.

_Curious._

He moves towards it, reaching a hand out to straighten the frame. Long digits pulling the frame off to find an oddly shaped hook just behind. “Clever. The obvious lack of cleanliness in regards to the rest of the house would dissuade anyone from finding a crooked picture out of the ordinary.” Reaching out with his free hand, he hooked his finger around the strange obtrusion and pulled down. Like clockwork, a scrapping sound was heard and the wall just behind the cabinet clicked open.

“Try it now inspector.”

The man nods then pushes against the panels again, this time to his surprise the wall gives under the pressure and slides to the side, revealing a room just beyond. It’s not very big, and dark from lack of windows. The Inspector stepped inside, the musk from the room sweeping out around him now that it had a place to expand. There were several boxes stacked to the ceiling and a cluttered desk in the corner with folders spread out. It looks like the space was just occupied and the owner had needed to leave in a hurry, so he hadn’t bother to organize things.

“You’ll find all you need within the boxes to incarcerate, Mr. Hasdeu.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sigerson.” The Inspector said, shaking his head as if he can’t believe his luck.

“I didn’t do it for you Inspector.” Sherlock said, turning from the scene and walking past a thoroughly upset Mr. Hasdeu. He paused just beside him, looking the portly man over, eyes reading everything off of the way he holds himself, eyes flicking over the cheaply made suit and the handkerchief that sticks from his breast pocket.  

“I would suggest that next time you decide to take up such a monumental task, that you research your potential clients more thoroughly.”

The Inspector smirked across the room and motioned with a sweep of his hand that the men could remove Mr. Hasdeu from the scene. “We’ll have to get a team in to sort through this mess but I’m sure we’ll find what we’re looking for. Thanks for your help.”

Sherlock dug into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a pair of gloves, tugging them on and not proving the least bit interested in the cleaning up of the case. “I do hate repeating myself, Inspector.”

“Well, thank for your help all the same. The mess we usually clean up when things like this go sour could make your stomach turn.”

Sherlock looked up, eyes meeting the Inspectors, something hidden behind them as he manages a tight smile. “You’d be surprised by the messes I’ve seen.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The wind was blowing through his hair as he navigated the small backstreets of Romania on the motorbike. It was a small thing, barely carrying more than one small satchel on the back and an antique were it in any other country but it got him from point A to point B. That was all that mattered considering he hadn’t paid for the method of transportation. No, Sherlock had paid for little since his arrival in Romania; partly because he was running low on funds but also because he wasn’t able to walk into a bank without the threat of revealing himself to the enemy he was following.

The first time he had located Moran was when he was in Russia. It had been three months since he’d found a lead and for some unknown reason, Moran slipped up while in Berlin. Sherlock had nearly had him, were it not for the blasted bank security. Mycroft had transferred some money into a seemingly untraceable account. Apparently that was hoping too much. Moran was gone before he even managed to get to the small flat the man had been calling a hide out and all that was left was a simple apple to taunt him.

Since that day, Sherlock had been trying to get back to London without the help of his brother. It hadn’t been easy, all the jobs he had taken were rather simple in regards to brain work but the pay was enough to provide him with food and pay for his travel expenses.

When he’d reached Romania, cases were few and far between. Knowing that Moran was already on his way back to London to finish the very job that Moriarty had put to him to finish. Which left Sherlock desperate for any case that would provide him with enough cash to book a seat on the earliest flight home. Thus he was working for Emil Siperco, a gang member in the lower parts of Targoviste who was currently having a family feud with the Hasdeu clan. Both were loan sharks but somehow Hasdeu was undercutting Siperco and thus the business was starting to fail. It was expensive to keep up appearances and that’s where Sherlock came in. He had been hired to put Hasdeu out of business. Essentially this meant that he was to kill the man but after convincing Emil that there were better ways to put someone out of business; ways that didn’t end with someone having a death on their hands, more legal ways, his employer agreed. So Sherlock had set to work pulling apart the tapestry that was Hasdeu’s network and eventually finding that he had been doctoring his books and laundering money.

The local police force did the rest of the work.

He turned into the back alley, coming up behind the building where Siperco conducted most of his business. Parking his bike, Sherlock kicked the stand out, tucking the keys into his jacket before heading to the back entrance. There was no sense securing his bike anymore, no one would steal such an antique unless they were a collector, especially if they saw it outside Siperco’s place of business.

Nodding to the single man guarding the entrance way, he held out his hands for the man to search him down. No weapons were allowed in the back room, not that Sherlock needed a stronger weapon then his mind. He allowed the brut to pat him down and confirm that he didn’t have a concealed weapon anywhere on him. Once the man was satisfied, he waved Sherlock through to the back office where he would find Emil.

“Is it done?” were the first words out of Emil’s mouth. He wasn’t much for small talk and had told Sherlock that the only time he ever wanted to see him was when the deed was finished.

Sherlock nodded, walking further into the room so one of Siperco’s lackey’s could close the door behind him and keep the conversation private. Not that it was necessary, from the looks of the bloke outside, Sherlock had deduced that he wasn’t thinking about the news of Hasbeu but rather what he was going to have for supper that evening.

“And the result?”

Sherlock frowned, “He’s currently in the custody of the police.”

Siperco narrowed his eyes as if he wasn’t sure this was the news he wanted, as if he was still expecting Sherlock to announce that he’d shot the man in the back of head instead of handing him over to the authorities.

“He’ll be helpless to keep his business afloat from prison,” Sherlock continued. “And the local forces won’t be able to trace it back to you. However, if that were the case then there would be nothing to hide. Everything was done by the books and Hasbeu has been his own undoing.”

This seemed to please Siperco as he gestured for his crony to stand down and let Sherlock approach his desk.

“I’m surprised with you Mr. Sigerson,” Emil commented, lifting a chain from around his neck and unlocking the top drawer of the desk he was currently situated at. “I expected it to take much longer than two days.”

“And I expected it to take only a few hours” Sherlock grumbled. It was true he was falling behind with his usual deduction skills. Something about being away from London was fogging his mind and making it hard to focus. He hoped that being back in the capital would ensure that his brain was back to its proper functioning capacity.

“I’m quite pleased with your work, if you’re looking fo-“

“No.” Sherlock said cutting him off, “I don’t expect to be in the country after tomorrow. No need to involve me in another of your petty disputes.”

Emil paused in his actions, staring up at Sherlock for a moment as if he was trying to figure out if the tall brooding man had in fact insulted him or just didn’t want another case. He must have understood as he said nothing more about the issue that had been on the tip of his tongue and instead fished out a large envelope.

“You should find the amount we agreed upon within.” He said, handing the envelope to Sherlock to look over.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it,” Sherlock said, snatching the envelope and opening it. Inside were several large bills crisp from an automated machine. He flicked through them, mentally counting to make sure he was receiving the agreed upon amount. Once he was satisfied, he folded the envelope and stuffed it into the opposite pocket of his leather jacket. “I would say it’s been a pleasure but it hasn’t. Good day.”

Emil and his bodyguard watched as Sherlock spun on his heels and exited the room, leaving both in wonder of who exactly they had hired.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Sherlock returned to the abandoned building he’d been calling home for the past two days, with a feeling of hope swelling in the pit of his stomach. He had finally secured enough money to make his way home, to London, to Baker Street, to John. He had been the one to bring this upon his friend and he was convinced that the only way to end it would be to come face to face with Moriarty’s right hand man. All the cards on the table as it were.

God did he miss, London. The smell of the rain, the musk that never seemed to disappear no matter where you were in the city. He missed his homeless network and the resources that had always been at his disposal. He missed Mrs. Hudson’s nagging for him to eat and the way she always seemed to be there with a light snack when he was feeling peckish; even though she wasn’t their housekeeper, thank you very much. He missed his own clothes, the well-tailored fit of a proper suit or sport jacket against his skin. He missed the smell of tobacco and the taste of nicotine even though he hadn’t touched the stuff in seven years. He missed the comfort of Baker Street and knowing were everything was located amongst the chaos and rubbish that everyone seemed to believe he had created.

But most of all he missed the comfort of one John Watson.

Pushing open the door to the abandoned apartment, he headed to the room he currently occupied. There were no lights; electricity long cut off but the walls of the building kept out the cold at night and he had a soggy mattress to sleep on as opposed to the iciness of the floor, which was a lot more than he could say about some of the residents.

Dropping his bag beside the mattress, he all but crumbled to the floor. Two days of endless investigations finally over and his body was demanding sleep. A period of recovery where he could recuperate physically and regroup his thoughts.

Shuffling till he was completely on the mattress, he reached out a hand and dug around in the satchel for several minutes in search of a lighter. There was a single candle in the room, set only a few feet from his head at the most optimal position to ensure the room would be sufficiently lit. Bringing the lighter out of his bag, he stretched an arm up to flick the catch and light the candle. Once lit a warm glow descended over the room, just enough light so that Sherlock could see a few meters around himself.

Going back to his bag, he rummaged around a few more minutes before pulling out a worn photo. It couldn’t really be called a photo, more of a piece of paper with a blurry picture curtsey CTV footage. For some unknown reason this picture had become a comfort to Sherlock on long nights away from home. Ever since Moriarty’s plan to discredit and ruin him had been struck in place, he always knew he’d eventually be alone; the picture however gave him purpose, reminded him of what he was protecting.

Laying back against his makeshift bed, he held the photo up to the light and glanced over the already memorized content.

It’s just a simple black and white photo with a time bar set on the side to tell him that it was taken a year ago; a year after his suicide. John is standing just outside of Baker Street, the poor sod never having the heart to move. He’s balancing a bag of shopping while leaning heavily on a cane and there’s the outline of Mrs. Hudson’s dress just disappearing in the doorway.

Mycroft had sent it to him nine months ago when he had started to loose heart. He had asked his brother to come home, being away from London had drained him and he missed the comforts of Baker Street. But Mycroft was quick to remind him of the risk in returning with the job only partially finished. At first Sherlock had retaliated, demanding his brother cover his fee’s for his return, swearing that he would be back to London before days end. He had accused Mycroft of keeping everything important from him, of robbing him of the few friendships he had left. In a fit of rage, he’d thrown the mobile against the wall, shattering it into several pieces.

That night he forwent food and instead used what was left of his funds to purchase a pack of cigarettes. Chain smoking them in an attempt to calm down and get ahold of the mess of feelings he was displaying. And it was a mess. A confusing mixture of sentiment that made his stomach twist into uncomfortable notes and his head hurt. He felt foolishly like a child, unsure of the new emotions that were clouding his better judgment. He knew Mycroft was right; that all that he held dear could only thrive once he had severed all the strings of Moriarty’s web. But it didn’t make the pain any less real.

He’d printed the picture off. Kept it with him at all times as a reminder of what he was fighting for, of what he had to go back to once this was all over. And piece by piece, step by minuscule step, Sherlock plucked the surviving threads. Now all that remained was the final play, the final detail in Moriarty’s scheme and its strongest player: Sebastian Moran.

Holding the picture up for a final glance, Sherlock let himself relax against the soggy mattress, bringing the paper down to his chest as he closed his eyes. A few hours’ sleep and then he would be on his way home. After three years away, he could finally return to London.

“Wait for me, John.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_LONDON 13 HOURS LATER_

**Returned to London. Arrived at Heathrow one hour ago. Send agreed upon information within the next twenty minutes. Any later and mobile will be incapacitated. Be thorough. SH**

Sherlock stuffed the mobile back into his pocket and grabbed up his leather bag from the carousel. He was hoping that Mycroft would send the new information about Moran’s location before he left the airport; having to make a detour in his plans just to ditch a mobile wasn’t something he wanted to waste time on.

Walking at a steady pace he headed towards the nearest vendor to purchase a new phone, the crowds bustling in around him. It had been three years since he’d set foot in England and to be home in the clamor and commotion of London seemed to renew his spirit.

Reaching the small vendor tucked around the corner and between the two coffee shops, he wedged his way out of the crowds and into the establishment. It wasn’t long before he located a pay as you go phone and upon picking it up, he decided to snatch up the package of disposable razors as well; his skin had become increasingly irritated by the new growth on his chin. Something that he would never have let happen under normal circumstances, but the last three years hadn’t been normal circumstances.

Paying for the items with what little British funds he had on his person, Sherlock turned to head to the nearest bathroom to clean up, only to run into the woman behind him. The force of the confrontation caused her to drop the few items in her arms, scattering them to the ground.

He blinked, looking down to find her kneeling to collect the lost items. Her frizzy blonde hair was pulled back into a tight pony tail and the make up on her face told the story of lack of sleep, possibly due to a broken relationship as the ring finger seemed to have a shadow of a band but no actual ring upon it. Sherlock’s eyes played over the necklace around her neck, held down against her chest by the dress suit she was wearing but obviously holding much more than a pendant; the ring then. Probably on a so called break to figure out what she and her significant other wanted to do with their lives, the predictable soul searching effort before commitment.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, quickly kneeling down to fetch up the magazine, bottle of cola and chocolate bar. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Obviously you did but failed to provide adequate room.” Sherlock huffed, not bothering to bend down and help her with the items, and instead turned on his heel and walked off, leaving the woman to fend for herself. His mind was distracted by more important things right now, even if the calculations that came along with reading her brought back the dying thrill. Right now he needed to focus on the fact that Moran was in Britain and that he was probably planning to attack John any day now.

This man was the last of Moriarty’s web, the most elusive and by extension the most dangerous.

Having passed the more extensive crowds, Sherlock eyed a washroom to the far right of the exit and proceeded to adjust his direction. Glad that he would soon be rid of the irritation on his chin, he headed towards it a determined spark in his eyes. He had almost made it there without any problems when he felt a tug on his arm. Turning, Sherlock found a small elderly woman glaring daggers at him.

“You!” She snapped, eyes narrowed as she sized him up.

Sherlock attempted to wrestle his arm free of the woman but it seemed her grip was firm. He pulled again, thinking it highly impossible that such a small woman could hold him back, when her nails dug into his jacket.

“What?” he demanded, meeting her glare with one of his own, he didn’t have time for whatever this was.

“You’ve ruined us.” She hissed, “My grandson was only trying to look out for his family and you ruined us. Now his children have nothing to eat and their mother has been forced to begging.”

Perplexed by this, Sherlock stopped struggling and looked at the woman. There must be some sign that would explain what she was going on about. Something that would tell him what he’d done and who her family was. There had been so many ruined families along the way back to England, that he often had a hard time keeping track of all of them. Once one was crossed off, it was marked to be deleted. But the ash under her finger nails and the smell on her clothes told him all he needed to know.

“Hasdeu.” He said calmly, more to himself then the woman before him.

“Dragos only wanted to do right by his family.” She snarled. Apparently he had guessed correctly.

Sherlock smirked at this comment, “There are many legal ways of doing right by ones family. You’re grandson needn’t have turned to the illegal side of things. It’s his own fault and he would have been discovered regardless of my advice on the matter. I was merely helping out the local authorities.”

Her gaze spoke of venom as a hand lashed out. “You have no idea what you’ve forced my granddaughter into. Of what she’s had to do to make up for Dragos’ mistakes. You are a monster that knows nothing of others; nothing about family.”

“There is plenty of work for a woman in Romania. I’m sure she’ll find her way eventually.” He replied, his calm stature only irritating the woman more.

“Fool. The name of Hasdeu has been tossed out. There is nothing she can do now that would be respectable. No one will have us for fear of involvement. And when a woman cannot provide for herself or her family in respectable ways, she must turn to a darker fate.”

“Yes well, I wouldn’t know now would I?” he snapped, getting impatient with this distraction. He needed to clean up and get to the designated safe house so he could think in peace. He took advantage of her stunned state by yanking his arm from her grasp. “Go back to your torn family. Or rather don’t, you’re probably a larger burden to tend to then the mouths of Dragos Hasdeu’s widow.” He knew the man wasn’t dead but being in prison, he might as well have been. There would be no money coming in to provide for the family and once a man’s purpose is lost, there wasn’t any use keeping ties.

He had just turned when a screech was heard from behind him and the woman launched herself at him. Hands ripping and tearing, nails digging into the side of his face as she tried to claw through it in vengeance. A crowd had gathered around and he could hear the yells of people calling for security as he tried to protect his face. He backed up, tripping over himself and tumbling to the ground backwards with the small form of vengeance continuing her attack.

“Get off!” he demanded, trying to thwart her attempts to harm him.

It was at that moment he felt the weight of her struggling form being lifted from him. His eyes came to focus on her as he spotted two larger men, bringing her away, her arms held as she kicked and attempted to free herself. Her eyes were always trained on him as he stood up and tried to collect himself. Sherlock noticed that in her hand she held a large clump of his hair, as if she had pulled it right from his head. A hand touched his head gingerly, checking for any spot that might be showing bald but it seemed she hadn’t caused too much harm to his appearance.

“You’ll pay for this!” she screamed, “You are a monster, Sherlock Holmes. And you will pay for the troubles you have caused my family. My burden will soon be yours.”

Shaking his head, Sherlock collected his leather bag from the ground. He didn’t want to be here when the airport security showed up. It was already a large flaw in his plan that someone had recognized him and had informed the whole of the crowds that he was there. If anything were to get out, Moran would know he was here.

“You’re mistaken Miss.” He proclaimed, hoping the crowd wouldn’t begin to speculate on who he really was. “My name is Victor Sigerson and I have never seen you before in my life.”

She growled, kicking out one last time, eyes given him an easy feeling as a wicked smile spread across her lips. “Soon you will wish you hadn’t.”

Ignoring her words, Sherlock turned on his heels and quickly vacated the scene, wishing for nothing more than a quiet space and a cup of John’s perfect Earl Grey tea.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He’d had to settle for a hot shower and a box of PG Tips. The new safe house was certainly a lot cleaner then the last one. There was a proper bed, raised from the floor and covered with a comforter that he was much looking forward to collapsing in. But first he had to check over the supplies that Mycroft had supplied him with.

Drying his hair with a towel, he walked back across the small room to the bed, and propped the laptop against the single flat pillow. Setting his Styrofoam cup full ghastly tea to the side, he tossed the towel to the floor. Mycroft had supplied him with a lap top with the most advanced security available; retina scan, voice authorization and finger print were all needed to unlock it along with a passcode of his own choosing.

After confirming through all fields that he was in deed Sherlock Holmes and finding it rather tedious that he couldn’t just use a passcode, Sherlock was able to connect to the files that his brother had collected. Apparently John wasn’t the only reason Moran was back in London. It seemed he had several other targets to take care off, only a handful that Mycroft had been able to identify thanks to the first death.  A Michael Sanders had been found in his flat on the twenty second floor shot through both eyes, coins resting over his eyelids. Something of a trademark, all his fingers had been removed.

There were few pictures but Sherlock didn’t need them to deduce that this was Moran’s work. The brutality and his knowing of the assassin being in the vicinity of London, only confirming his suspicions.

Scratching at the newly shaved skin of his chin, he pushed the laptop to the side and stretched out over the bed. It seemed his lack of proper sleep and the fact that he’d been provided with a serviceable place of rest this time was catching up with him. Signing off of the computer, he closed the lid and pushed it up against the wall, body curling around the device. Sherlock’s eyes drooped and he fell into an uninterrupted state of sleep.

*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Sherlock awoke, there was more light let into the room through the curtains then he could have foreseen. Usually up at the crack of dawn, his body felt unusually heavy and he curled into the pillows further to block out the light. There was no rush, not without more data on who the next assassination would be.

Bringing a hand up to his face, he rubbed the heel of his hand against his eyes, jerking it away immediately when the smell caught his nostrils. Peppermint.

But he’d not had anything with peppermint in it for ages, where was the smell coming from. He lifted his hand again to his nose and upon finding it was coming from himself, he opened his eyes. His hand was much smaller, much smaller and daintier. Flipping it over, he found the nails were manicured and pained an obscene orange color.

Thinking himself still asleep, Sherlock reached over and pinched himself but the response left him with the same conclusion. Hands still dainty.

“Interesti-.” He mumbled, pausing half way as the sound of his voice was strange to his ears. Running his tongue over his teeth, he tried again, this time much slower. “In-ter-est-ing.”

It was confirmed. His voice had changed as well.

Attempting to kick off the sheets, he finally got a look at the room around him. This wasn’t where he had fallen asleep the previous evening but that much was obvious by the strangeness of his voice and the unfamiliar arms attached to his body. This didn’t make sense though. If he wasn’t asleep what was going on?

He shifted, eyes landing on a mirror just above a white dresser. It was adorned with ribbons and flowers, an antique monstrosity by all rights that would make anyone cringe but the sight that caught his attention was of himself. Staring back at him was a woman.

Lifting his arm to confirm what he was seeing in the mirror, there was a groan from just behind him. An arm wrapped around him and pulled him close making Sherlock jump.

“What’s wrong babe?” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up in Mary's body.

It wasn’t that Sherlock was a virgin. In fact he’d experimented throughout his adolescence when it came to dating and the opposite sex. What he found was he didn’t exactly care for the small talk and the amount of effort put into planning dates. By the time he’d reached University, he’d tried just about everything in the book. Dating both genders to see if it were any different and documenting the results so he could compare them later. But after two months he found the work tedious and time consuming and wanted nothing more to do with relationships.

Waking up in the body of a woman, in a strange bed with an even stranger man wrapping his arms around him was rather unsettling to say the least. Chills went up Sherlock’s spine as he rounded, bringing his fist up to connect with the man’s face. Small and compact, it didn’t matter, he still knew how to hold the weight of a body and use it against anyone accosting him. There was a yelp of pain and the hands dropped from around Sherlock’s waist allowing him the precious seconds needed to pull away from the bed.

“Jesus Mary, what the hell!?” The man snapped, his voice taken on a nasally tone as he clutched it. Apparently Sherlock had hit his assailant in the nose and said appendage was now bleeding profusely over the man’s hand as he tried to stem the flow. “Think you broke my nose.”

_Mary?_

“You shou-“Sherlock brought a hand to his throat, it felt strange to be speaking words with a female monologue. Quickly ignoring the voice in his head, he continued, “You should count yourself lucky. It was either a broken nose or cutting your hands off with a dull knife, personally I would have preferred the later, much more amusing.”

The man’s eyes widened while trained on Sherlock. “Is that some kind of joke?” he asked, clutching a tissue against his nose.

“No.”

It was blunt and to the point and if the man currently residing in his-her-the woman’s bed, couldn’t understand that the word also spoke of a dismissal then he was more of an idiot then Sherlock thought. Picking up a robe from the floor, Sherlock wrapped it around the petite body he was currently using as transport and rounded on the man.

“If it isn’t already clear, I wish you to leave.” Sherlock said, crossing his arms over his chest or at the very least trying too. Breasts, this is certainly interesting.

“What? Mary, you’re being ridiculous. It’s me, Evan, not some stranger. I’m not going to hurt you sweet heart.” The man was kicking the covers off of himself now that the bloody nose seemed to have stopped. There were two pieces of tissue stuck up each nostril in case it decided to bleed once more and Sherlock found the sight before him pathetic.

“Hurt me? You must be joking.”

Evan’s eyebrows furrowed together and Sherlock could have sworn in that moment the man looked like some sort of demented owl. “Look, I know we tried some weird stuff last night but I’d never hurt you on purpose doll, you have to know that. I love you, Mary.”

Sherlock couldn’t contain it, the whole situation was like a miserable soap opera, and he broke down into a fit of giggles. Definitely more high pitched and condescending when coming from a woman; he’d have to keep that in mind for the next time he dealt with someone of Evan’s mental facilities.

Having just pulled on his jeans, Evan stood shocked as Sherlock burst into laughter. “What’s gotten into you Mary?”

“What’s gotten into me?” the double entendre was terrible but he couldn’t help a few more giggles, “Nothing’s gotten into me, I’m perfectly fine.” The giggles finally subsided and Sherlock was trying his best not to analyze everything that had just happened within the new body.

“You’re acting like a completely different person and when I said I loved you, you just laughed.” Evan pointed out, snatching up a burgundy ball of fabric which turned out to be a wrinkled dress shirt.

“Of course I laughed,” Sherlock stated, eyes roaming over the man and taking in the details. “How could you possibly love Ma-me, you don’t even live in London.” He paused for a second, “If this is in fact London.”

Evan raised an eyebrow at that. “Sorry?”

“You’re a businessman. Though judging by the way you treat your clothes it’s not a job you particularly enjoy or chose to pursue. Which leads me to believe you were forced into some sort of family business,” his eyes trailed down to Evan’s left hand, “probably by your wife. Perhaps she was the prize for holding the job or maybe not considering you’re here with me. Also, you’re from out of town. You’re wearing jeans with your dress shirt which tells me that either casual Friday has extended itself or you were short on space in your luggage, it was easier to bring a single pair of jeans for the few hours you were allowed to be away from those dull meetings which brought you here in the first place. Hence the combination. Now, shall we talk about why I don’t believe you?”

There was silence in the room as Evan just stared across at Sherlock. When he finally seemed to regain his composure, he turned his head from the woman berating him and looked at the wall. “You know I can’t leave Cecilia,” his voice was weak and Sherlock had to strain to hear his reply, “She’d take me for everything I have, not to mention she’d want sole custody of the kids. If there was a way for us to be together, you know I would be all over it but there isn’t.”

Sherlock let his head fall back, closing his eyes with a groan. This was ridiculous, obviously this Mary person hadn’t seen around these little faults, otherwise she would have kicked Evan to the curb long again. That was the problem with women who thought themselves in love, they were blinded by the faults of their partners.

“There’s always a way,” he complained, “You’re just too comfortable to take the chance. You think you’re safe with the picturesque family and job that allows you to get away every once in a while. Even have a little piece on the side to compensate for the fact your wife hasn’t slept with you in ages. Why else would you be so eager for me to believe you'loved' me? Not to mention the fact you listed your children as a second priority. Seems to me you’re afraid to sacrifice your lifestyle for this so called love you claim to have for me. You should go back to your wife and either work things out with her or cut your losses and separate. As it is, you’re wasting everyone’s time dancing around the problem.”

Evan blinked, mouth hanging open as his eyes were once more trained on Sherlock. “I-“

“Save it. I’m done listening to your pathetic ramblings,” Sherlock snarled, lifting a hand to point at the door to the bedroom. “Get out. It’s over. I’m done with you.” How much clearer did Sherlock have to be in order to rid the room of this idiot?

“Mary, you don’t mean that.” Evan was approaching him now, hands held out in a peace offering.

“Oh I think you’ll find that I do,” Sherlock continued, “Get out and don’t bother ever coming back because if you do, I’ll make good on my promise to detach your hands from your body.”

That seemed to be the magic words, sending Evan stumbling over himself to collect his jacket and other items. Two minutes later he was gone and Sherlock was finally able to focus on the more interesting part of his morning. Mary and why he was currently inside her body.

*~*~*~*~**~*

A search of the small flat yielded little to answer the questions plaguing Sherlock’s mind. How was it, he was in a woman’s body and not just dreaming up this whole mess? Was his mind starting to play tricks on him in its overworked state and he was just imagining this whole ordeal? But then that wouldn’t explain the man Evan and the feel of physical touch.

Drawing the silk robe closer around his body, Sherlock dug in the drawers of the dresser, hoping to find some answers at least to where he was and who he was. This would certainly be a flaw in his plan but perhaps he could use it to his advantage. Moran wouldn’t be expecting a woman after all. The only problem was, if he were to use this inconvenience to his advantage, there was no telling when it would suddenly end or even if it ever would. The idea of being stuck in a woman’s body for the rest of his life made Sherlock feel a bit ill. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t be able to handle life as a woman, only that he’d put so much work into mastering his male body; his defensive armor, that starting all over again felt hopeless.

Shaking his head, he moved from the drawers to the bag set down upon the dresser. Digging through the content, he finally found a wallet. Pulling out the leather casing, he examined it. Obviously worn but still a better quality item then everything else this ‘Mary’ seemed to possess. Probably a gift from a family member or possibly the man he’d just eradicated from the flat. Opening the clasp, he flipped the wallet so it was spread out before him, various cards tucked in place.

“Mary Morstan.” He read, eyes trained on the driver’s license. “How painfully dull.” There was one bit that caught his eyes though which made him smirk. “London. Excellent.” At least he was in the same city as his body, which was a plus. Perhaps if he contacted Mycroft he would be able- No. there was no way he was going to contact Mycroft looking like this. He would be the butt of Mycroft’s jokes for the rest of his life, there was no way he was going to give his pompous brother any more ammunition against him.

Which left him with few options. He couldn’t contact John. The Doctor would think him out of his mind were he to approach him and claim to be a dead friend in another person’s body. And Mrs. Hudson would hear none of it before shooing him out or calling the police. Lestrade would assume someone had put him up to it and even if he could in some way prove he was in fact Sherlock Holmes back from the dead, he would never hear the end of it. This had come at such an inopportune time. All those he considered friends would think him out of his mind. If he had in fact given them some sort of sign that he was in fact still alive then perhaps it would have eased the disbelief a bit. Not that he had any idea how to explain how he’d ended up in this woman’s body.

Running a hand through his newly acquired frizzy hair, Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror again. Being a woman, that wasn’t something he ever thought he would have to face. He respected the female population as much as the next but frankly the idea of living the rest of his life as one frightened him. Especially since the woman he had woken up as seemed to lack any sense of self-respect.

He brought a hand up to dab at the bags under his eyes. At least he knew how to apply make-up, which would be a start. Anything to make him look a bit more alive to the rest of the world. Blowing out a breath that flipped the edges of his new blond hair, Sherlock eyed up a necklace sitting just to the right of Mary’s oversized purse. It was a ring with a simple chain threaded through it.

His mind flashed back to the previous day. He recognized the ring and when he glanced back up at the mirror, he realized exactly who he was.

“The bumbling idiot at the airport.” He hissed. That was who he was. The woman who had bumped into him, probably on her way to pick up the unfortunate mistake that was Evan. The one who had collided with him just before the gypsy- “Ridiculous.” He snapped, head falling back to glare at the roof. “There is no such thing as gypsy curses.” But the evidence was right in front of him, physical and very real.

He was a victim of something that shouldn’t be possible. A victim without a clue how to get his own body back or even if his body had survived whatever had happened to make this possible.

Then that would be where he would start. The abandoned flat where he had fallen asleep last night.

Now all he needed was to make himself somewhat presentable to the public world. Couldn’t exactly run around London in a dressing gown, even if it were something he might have done in the past. This wasn’t his body and in the words of John, running about in a dressing gown would be a bit not good.

Heading over to the wardrobe in the corner, Sherlock flung the doors open to reveal a mass of brightly colored clothes, half of which were covered in hideous floral prints.

Perhaps the dressing gown wouldn’t be so awful after all.

*~*~*~*~**~*

The abandoned flat had been a complete bust in regards to finding his old body but not a complete waste. He had recovered all his equipment, laptop and gun included, and there were indications that someone had been here at one time. So at least he knew he was still alive and his body hadn’t completely vanished off the face of the Earth.

Lugging his bag over his shoulder, Sherlock admitted to himself that if he was going to have any chance of finding himself, he was going to need help. Unsure if anyone was actually inhabiting his body at this point, he knew the best chance he had was to start from the bottom and work his way up. Which meant he would have to get in touch with Molly. Thankfully she at least knew he wasn’t dead but whether that would help him convince her that he was in fact Sherlock Holmes in someone else’s body was still yet to be clear.

Hailing down a cab didn’t seem to be a problem even in this body and before long, Sherlock was on his way to St. Barts, mind racing to come up with a reasonable way to get Molly to believe him. Of course he always thought more of Molly then the poor girl thought of herself. She was a keen observer when she wanted to be and clever at her job. The skills she used to help him fake his death in the first place had caused him to rely on her above anyone else.

He’d even spent the first few weeks after his supposed suicide on her couch, planning out his next move and gathering Intel on Moriarty’s web. Molly had been there to support him and when Mycroft was being particularly difficult, Sherlock would contact her for updates on John and Mrs. Hudson’s wellbeing. In fact, over the past few years, he would go as far as to say Molly had replaced John in his life. She had become his only friend, the last remaining link to his London life.  

*~*~*~*~**~*

A package of crisps tucked in the top pocket of her lab coat, arms stacked full of Manila folders and various texts, Molly made her way back to the pathology wing of St. Bart's hospital. It hadn't been a particularly busy day but that had all changed with a single phone call from Scotland Yard about a body that she would be receiving within the hour. Something about heart failure, a case which should have been open and shut but for Greg Lestrade feeling something amiss. So here she was hurrying away from her hastily eaten lunch to return to the morgue and prepare the body for him.

 She had just turned down the wing and pushed through the doors with her shoulder when she crashed into another body. Papers flying everywhere and books scattering to the floor, she righted herself quickly in order to catch a glance at who she had run into.

"Molly, excellent. Just the person I was looking for." The blond woman gave her a flattering smile which only served to unnerve Molly. She wasn't flirting with her was she?

"Hello," she squeaked before ducking down to gather up her work, "I'm sorry, do I know you?" Molly had met so many new faces over the years that sometimes she found herself forgetting. She hadn't gone to school with this woman had she? Maybe they had worked together at some point? Or did she run the sandwich shop around the corner?

"Of course you do." Then the woman paused as if she was repeating what she had just said in her head. "On second thought, perhaps not."

Molly didn't comment on the bazaar look which crossed the woman's features and instead focused on collecting everything she had dropped due to the collision. Once they were all back in her hands she stood up once more, noting that whoever this woman was she was rather rude for not at least offering to help Molly collect her things.  "I'm sorry but I'm really busy at the moment..." She attempted to side step the woman but the blonde moved to block her way.

Blue eyes glanced at the amount of papers in Molly's arms before the woman smirked. "One body is hardly busy."

"Look, I don't know what it is you want from me but I have to get back to work." She huffed, standing straighter to try and intimidate the woman enough that she would leave her alone.

"They're corpses, I hardly think they require your immediate attention." The woman smirked, "Unless you're meeting someone and need to prepare for that. Tell me, is it Lestrade?"

Molly felt a tremor of shock run through her, "How did- who are you?"

The woman raised an eyebrow as if she expected Molly to be able to come up with an answer to her own question but there was nothing about her that spoke of a familiarity between them. Was she someone Molly had snubbed in the past? Had they met through family and she had completely forgotten some distant relative?

“Are we really going to do this?” the woman huffed. “Look, if I tell you who I am, could you do your best to keep your reaction to a minimum? We hardly want to draw any more attention.”

“Unless you’re my long lost sister, I don’t think I’ll be freaking out at all.” Molly replied pointedly. There wasn’t much that shocked her, she worked in a morgue after all.

“Right…” The woman didn’t look at all convinced as she took another step forward, so close now that she was practically touching Molly. “I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

There was a moment of silence before Molly couldn’t take it anymore and burst out laughing. “That’s absolutely ridiculous,” she snorted, trying to contain the waves of giggles. “Who put you up to this?” She knew for certain that this woman wasn’t Sherlock, since he was dead in the eyes of the public. There were only a handful of people who knew that Sherlock was alive and those few people included herself. Last she had heard, he was off in France tracking down Moriarty’s remaining network of criminals.

“As ridiculous as faking my own death with your help?” the woman was glaring at her now in a way that made Molly feel highly uncomfortable. There was some weird similarities to that look, ones she couldn’t put her hand on.

Molly stopped laughing and attempted to side step the woman, “Look, I don’t know who you are but I can tell you for certain, you are not Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes was a good man and a brilliant detective, but he’s dead. I should know, I was the forensic pathologist assigned to look after his body. And if that were to leave any doubts, his body is currently in a grave with his name on it.” As if that knowledge would have somehow caused the woman to realize how wrong she was being, “He was my friend and I don’t know what you’re insinuating but this is an insult to his memory.”  

Sherlock huffed. Of course it was an insult. The very fact he had woken up in this body was an insult. Sure his own was usually just regarded as transport but he’d had enough time to get use to its needs and how to deal with them. His real body and he, had an understanding that when there was a case going, he could completely ignore everything that his body might need to function.

In this body however, he was already starving. The grumbling was even loud enough for those around him to notice and was incredibly irritating. He didn’t have time to waste eating, he needed to figure out what had happened and get back to his own body as soon as possible.

“Not entirely an insult since I’m still alive.”

The look on Molly’s face however was one of pain. She looked unsure of herself, as if she wanted to believe the words but knew they were untrue. She was telling him everything that they had gone over before his apparent suicide. All the lies that she was to tell the public and papers if someone were to come asking after him. One could never be too careful when it came to Moriarty’s network of spies and assassins. And while she looked at him, features obviously trying to keep steady, Sherlock could read that hurt in her eyes.

“Look, I really need to go now,” She said slowly as if she were talking to a patient who was easily provoked. “I think you’re looking for the doctors on the fifth floor. They can help you sort this out.”

Sherlock glared daggers at the wall just to the left of Molly. He didn’t want to appear to be angry with her but the situation was more frustrating than he could have predicted. He thought that she would be willing to accept this explanation but since Sherlock himself couldn’t come up with a logical answer to the literal ‘out of body experience’, why would Molly?

The silence seemed to signal that Molly was allowed to leave and Sherlock could already see in the way her body seemed to turn that she was ready to walk away from him.

“I-I know it seems impossible,” he said quickly, not sure how to explain things to her when he himself had no idea but he had to try. “I woke up this morning and when I did, this is what I looked like. Just yesterday, I was walking through Heathrow airport. I’m so close to dismantling Moriarty’s web, just one more agent. And then…then this happens and I have no logical explanation as to why.”

“I really need to –“

Sherlock cut her off however, hand reaching out and grabbing her arm to keep her from leaving him. “What will it take to make you believe me?”

Molly bit her lip, struggling to think of some way to get away from him. “If I tell you, will you promise to leave me alone?”

Was he really that threatening as a women?

“Yes.”

“Alright.” Molly turned back to him, deep in thought as she tried to come up with a way he might be able to prove himself to be Sherlock Holmes. “I..If..hmm… If you’re Sherlock Holmes then tell me something that only he and I would know.”

It was the first thing that Molly had said that made Sherlock feel confident that he could get her on his side. There were plenty of instances that only the two of them knew about, words exchanged in private. “My death. The day I decided to jump from the roof, I asked for your help.”

She still didn’t seem convinced, so he continued, “After they took my body away from the pavement, they brought me here. You slipped me out of the building, replacing my own body with the body of the man Moriarty used to frame me. I stayed at your house for several days after that, until Mycroft was able to secure me transport out of London.”

She blinked across at him, the disbelief that had clouded her eyes, starting to clear up. Confident that he was finally getting through to her, Sherlock took a step closer, leaning forward to whisper into her ear. “You once asked me what was wrong and I told you, I thought I was going to die. Do you remember that last conversation with just the two of us? In the lab in the dark. You asked me what I needed and I told you, “you.”

Molly stumbled back a step and squeaked, again dropping all the books and papers that she had been trying to balance. Her hands came up to cover her mouth in shock, eyes wide as she looked him up and down. Apparently that had been enough to prove who he was, regardless of the body he was in.

“Sh-sherlock?” her voice was so quiet he almost didn’t hear it. “H-how is this possible?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was days like this that John felt he was finally getting back into the groove of things. Three years ago Sherlock had died and even with all the time that had passed, it took a great amount of effort for John to get through the day. Thankfully, Greg was more than willing to pick up the pieces of a broken man and offer him something to keep his mind completely occupied. The DI had kept his number on speed dial and whenever he could, he offered to send John a text or ring him up to work on a case. It was a bit of a routine that they had fallen into and though neither would admit it, it had been a therapy for them both. Something that connected them to Sherlock even though he was dead. Sure they still got together for pints every so often but it had become an exercise in silence as they didn’t have any new stories about Sherlock to share. They had united over alcohol and the insane actions of one man. Removing the man from the equation just made everything so much duller. So when Greg suggested John still work on some of the cases that came his way, John had been more than thankful.

It had started with the cold cases. Stuff that he could look over and that didn’t have a deadline. Greg told him that a fresh pair of eyes often helped, even if they weren’t as sharp as Sherlock’s. So he continued working at the clinic and in his off time, he read over old cases, hoping that in the few years he had spent with Sherlock, the genius had somehow rubbed off on him. But it seemed like months of nothing out of the ordinary. There were no breaks in any of the cases and John was becoming discouraged. He was supposed to be this illuminator but it seemed that without Sherlock, he just didn’t work.

Until one day he read over one of the cases and the medical report stuck out to him. Throughout the rest of the day it had been in the back of his mind, something wasn’t right. So after his shift, he returned to Baker Street to look over the case again. It was that case, his very first break through that got the blood pumping in his veins, electrifying his life with a spark of adrenaline. Of course it wasn’t the same as when he had been with Sherlock. Nothing could ever compare to the continual flow of that electricity but these dying sparks were enough for him.

Eventually Greg suggested that he accompany them to a few of the cases he was given lead on. And though John felt out of place, he never refused the offer. Somehow it was like having Sherlock back again. Walking to a crime scene and having the tape lifted for him. He was back to the John he used to be when Sherlock was there. Someone with purpose and while he couldn’t deduce everything at rapid pace, he was still able to offer his expertise and thus keep a small hold on that life.

So when he received a text earlier while he was at work asking if he’d like to come along with Greg on a follow up to a recent case, he didn’t even think. A few hours later when he got off work, he had hopped into a cab and headed to St. Barts.

Greg met him at the doors to the morgue. “Thanks for agreeing to do this, I know you’ve been working overtime because of how busy the clinic’s been, so I really appreciate it.”

John nodded offering a smile, “Let’s be honest. It was like a God send to have something else to do besides check temperatures and diagnose meningitis.”

With a grin and a nod, Greg pushed the doors open and waited for John to go in ahead of him. “You mean to tell me looking after snot nosed kids isn’t your idea of a good time?” he teased, following after John.

“If I don’t see another child for the rest of the week, it will be a blessing.” He chuckled.

“So I phoned ahead and got Molly to pull the body for further examination,” Greg explained as he walked in step next to John.

“You thought something was wrong with the picture?” John asked as they turned the corner and came to the doors of examination room one.

Once again, Greg held the door open for the doctor, “Nah. I thought it was a closed case. No sign of foul play or anything to suggest that my division should bother with it. To be honest, I didn’t even know about it. A friend of mine brought it up yesterday, said a friend of his was manic and had been to the yard every day demanding that they open a murder investigation into the death of the woman he’d been sleeping with. He asked if I woul-“

But he trailed off, eyes having scanned the room and found someone else besides Molly and a corpse within. John found his eyes landing on the woman as well. She had appeared to be in deep conversation with Molly before they had arrived in the room and was now looking over at them with a wide eyed look of shock.

“Molly…” Greg waited for Molly to explain why there was another woman in the room. She wasn’t wearing anything to suggest she worked at the hospital and he very much doubted that she was a relative to the deceased.

“Oh,” Molly walked over to the table quickly, “Sorry. I hope you don’t mind but this is a friend of mine…er-“

“Mary.” The woman supplied, following after Molly at a much slower pace, as if she were accustom to death and could care less about the corpse laying just feet from her under a sheet.

“Yes, Mary.” Molly beamed, “She’s a…nurse. Works on another floor and came to see if I could leave early so we could go for dinner.”

John wasn’t sure if she was telling the entire truth, something about the way Molly was fidgeting in place and tucking hair behind her ear just didn’t seem right. But it would explain why the woman didn’t seem the least bit unnerved by the body. Being a nurse, Mary would have been accustom to death, especially if she worked in a hospital and not a clinic. Usually the more serious cases, including those who needed long term care came to the hospital rather than wait around for an appointment at one of the nearby clinics. But when Molly explained this, Mary’s expression had changed. Her face turning in the direction of Molly and her eyes narrowing as if she was upset that Molly had announced her profession.

Greg still seemed to be at a loss of words, so John stepped around him and offered his hand to Mary. “John Watson.”

The irritation on Mary’s face faded with this distraction and while she looked unsure of herself, she took his hand. “Mary Morstan.”

“Are you sure you want to stay with us while we do this Mary? It’s probably not something you want to see if you can help it.” Greg said, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trench coat to pull out the pad of paper he used to take quick notes, just in case they were needed later on when he filled out his reports.

Molly bit her lip, her posture suddenly looking worried as her eyes flashed towards her friend. John had never seen her act like that outside of the company of Sherlock. Everyone but the detective had known she had feelings for him. It was surprising what a brain like that was unable to compute. Both emotions and feelings seemed out of Sherlock’s reach most of the time. He blinked the thoughts away, focusing once again on the table before them.

“I’m fine.” Mary stated.

They stood in silence for a moment before Molly squeaked, “oh, sorry.” She reached out and undid the zipper on the bag, before folding it back to mid-waist. “You’re lucky her body hasn’t been processed yet. I heard her husband was going to have a wake but apparently it was only a rumor.”

Greg flipped his notes back several pages, “Right. Ruth Sanders, thirty-seven years old, a colorful history of drug use, most recently the injected variety. Husband called around two in the morning for an ambulance but Ruth was dead by the time they arrived. He claims it’s heart failure due to his wife using unclean needles behind his back. Apparently he didn’t like her drug habit and had been forcing her to go to rehab.”

John moved closer to the body and Molly dug into her pocket to pull out a pair of gloves for him. He slipped them on before taking Ruth’s arms one at a time into his hands and turning them so the palms were facing upwards. “Well, she’s definitely a drug user and I doubt by the looks of this that she ever planned on quitting.” He traced a few of the marks on her inner elbow, the spots contrasting vastly now that her skin was pale from lack of blood flow.

“She was looked over by the medic’s but they came to the same conclusion as the husband.” Greg continued, his eyes glancing at the marks John brought to his attention before returning to his notes. “Which is the odd bit. The medics say heart failure and claim it was a due to the drugs but when police showed up, they couldn’t find any drugs on the premises. I know someone that was on that team and he said when they got there and while the body was being bagged, the husband wasn’t crying at all. He seemed a bit shaken up but he wasn’t upset over the death, like he had always expected it to happen.”

“Did they run a tox-screen?” John asked, lifting one of her eyelid’s to look for the signs in her eyes.

“They were going too,” Greg started but paused to flip the pages of his notes ahead three or four times. “Ah…yeah, they were going to run one to make sure that was the cause of her death but her husband started up with a story about how his wife hadn’t been feeling good the past few days. They had decided together that it was just a passing flu bug but over the weekend, he says it developed into something else entirely. By the time he decided she needed to go to the hospital, it was too late.”

Mary raised an eyebrow at this and leaned further over the body to get a look at the track marks on the women’s inner arm. John glanced up at her, it was strange for him to see someone so interested in the body, at least anyone outside of his inner circle of friends.

“So the husband claims it was heart failure due to the wife having…”

Greg glanced down at his notes again, eyes scanning quickly, “having an infecti-“

“Infective Endocarditis?” John asked and when Greg nodded, he turned his eyes back to the marks.

“Seems a bit convenient that he would know exactly what was wrong with her if they never brought her into hospital for a diagnoses,” Mary added, causing both men to look up at her in shock. “Was he a doctor?”

Greg exchanged a look with John before replying carefully, “…no.”

“Then how would he know what was wrong?” Mary focused her attention on Greg now, “You’re not a doctor, you’re a detective. You’ve seen more death then he would have and even you had a hard time spelling it out. How is it possible the husband would know the exact cause of her heart failure unless it was brought to their attentions earlier? What’s the usual treatment for that Doctor Watson?”

“It’s just an infection,” John explained, “It starts in the blood stream but most bacteria that gets into the bloodstream is killed by the immune system. Endocarditis is extremely uncommon though. Seems likely, that if she did have it, it would have been due to injections with contaminated needles. But even then, it usually develops slowly. Weeks, months even. She would have been sick for that entire time and like Miss. Morstan said, they would have had to go to hospital to truly diagnose it. Then it’s just a matter of antibiotics.”

“Could she have died from it? This quickly I mean.”

“It is possible. But she would have been sick for some time before. From what you’ve explained Greg, the husband is claiming she’s been sick for only a few days, yes?”

Greg nodded, “Claims it happened because she was a drug user.”

Mary snorted at this, looking smugly down at the body. “So everyone just believed what he said?”

This earned her a look from both men. John was actually finding her involvement to be quite curious and almost enjoyable. How she knew all of this was probably due to her training but still, to be able to piece everything together when the police hadn’t bothered, was fascinating. She was a normal everyday citizen and now she was trying her hands at picking apart details that Scotland Yard hadn’t even bothered to analyze.

“Well,” Greg recovered, “It seemed plausible and since he was present when it happened, they decided to not explore any other options. Heart failure from drug use is rather common, so even if they didn’t believe his story about this Endo-thing, they most likely would call it a drug mishap. The only reason we’re looking over it is she had a secret lover and he came forward to one of the police in charge of the investigation, claiming it was murder.”

“Is the reason the husband didn’t want to have an autopsy done due to his career?” Mary asked, crossing her arms over her chest, even though it looked rather uncomfortable and odd when she did it.

“Politics.”

“Well there you go. Husband in the spotlight with a wife who does drugs and happens to have a lover on the side. Bit obvious isn’t it.”

John glanced at Greg who was now gaping at the woman like he were some sort of fish, completely confused by what was going on. “Not obvious to me.”

“It’s the track marks, isn’t it.” John offered, meeting Mary’s eyes with his own. This suggestion made her eyes sparkle and she grinned across at him. For a moment, John forgot how to breathe and was sure he matched the look Greg was giving her. Hopefully, he recovered quicker than his friend though. Wouldn’t due to look stupid in front of someone so brilliant. But then, Mary didn’t seem at all put off by his look and instead seemed even more enthusiastic to explain her reasoning.

“Husband calls the ambulance and tells them she has some infection that he only would have known about had he researched into it or gone to the hospital,” She turned to Molly, extending her hand and Molly quickly dug into the pocket of her lab coat for another set of gloves. While Mary put them on, she continued to explain, “Knowing that he didn’t go to the hospital, gives us our first clue. What kind of a husband doesn’t care about his ailing wife? So obviously her lover is telling the truth, at least in regards to their relationship. The fact he demands it be looked into as a murder, suggests he cares more than her actual husband. Now back to the husband. He knew about her drug habit and claims they planned to put her into a rehab. But if that were the case, she would be there already. He didn’t just find out about the drugs, he’s known for some time. So the fact he didn’t bother to put her into a rehab, suggests he was still trying to hide it from the press. And then it just became convenient to claim rehab was just right around the corner; make himself seem like a doting husband who was completely committed to his wife.” She shook her head as if they idea were ridiculous. “So what do we know? Husband’s career could be hurt by both his wife’s drug habit and lover on the side. Wife is obviously a drug user, the marks are enough to tell us that but…” she leaned back over the body, grumbling under her breath about being too short, “The track marks. You can tell that several of them are old. Years even and like John said, she didn’t plan on quitting anytime soon. So years’ worth of marks on her arms. How long has she been with this lover?”

“uh…two years.”

“Which explains the reason she quit using. Sentiment would dictate that she forced herself to quit because she found someone worth living for,” Mary waved this off as if not wanting to talk about the woman’s devotion to her lover. “So she’s been off the drugs for some time. Then husband finds out about the lover. Not wanting his career to be destroyed by the press when they find out that his wife has run off with another man, decides to kill her off. Why else would he have avoided taking her to the hospital if she had been sick?”

“Because they thought it was the flu.” Greg reminded her but Mary only shot him a look which immediately silenced him.

“I doubt it. Convenient that he was the only one to know she was sick. Did her lover never come looking for her? From the drastic measures he’s taken to get the whole bit investigated, I can tell you for certain he would not have left her in bed sick. And knowing that the endocarditis explanation the husband provides is highly unlikely, the only explanation would be that she was using again.” 

John looked back down at her arms, it was true that all the marks looked old, “But if she was happy, why would she use again? If she was feeling the urge, she could have told someone, in this situation most likely her lover. Why would she give up being clean? There’s nothing to suggest some earth shattering loss that would cause her to use without anyone’s knowledge.”

Once again, Mary flashed John a grin, “Exactly. She wouldn’t give up all that hard work for one hit. And if she was feeling the urge to use, she could have reached out for help. Women are usually ruled by e—mo---we have strong emotions when it comes to relying on someone.” It was a slip up that only John seemed to catch but he didn’t say anything. Maybe Mary was just on a roll and that was the reason she was regarding to her gender in third person. “The lover calls it murder yes? I bet he’s blaming the husband, right?”

Greg was so speechless at the moment, that he only nodded, completely entranced by her explanation.

“The fact her husband wasn’t all that upset by the death and doesn’t want to have the death investigated only proves her lover right. He did it. He knew she was going to leave him for this other man and decided to get a jump on it. If she left and the papers got wind of it, they would turn him into a monster of some sort. What kind of man drives his wife into the arms of another? But to have them see it as heart failure due to her drug use and claiming that he was trying to get her help, makes him the martyr and his wife some unsavory sort, a damsel who didn’t want the help he was offering.”

Finally out of his stupor, Greg raised an eyebrow, “You can speculate all you want Miss. Morstan but there’s no prove.”

“Actually there is,” John said, “The track marks. They’re all old except for this one. It’s more recent, you can tell by the rate of healing around the injection site.”

“So drug overdose then,” Greg replied unconvinced, “still doesn’t prove that the husband murdered her. If anything it proves that her heart failure was due to drug overdose.”

“Except that what was injected was what killed her.” John said, “Look at the coloring around that injection site in comparison to the others. She was injected with some sort of poison…”

“What?” Greg moved closer to the table now, leaning down to look at the tiniest of marks. “Ok. It does look different, I’ll give you that. But poison?”

“You said yourself that they couldn’t find any drugs on the premises.” Mary said, standing up straight once more and pulling off the latex gloves, “If she had been doing drugs, there would have been some sign of it. That added to the fact the husband wants no autopsy and has yet to make any funeral arrangements. It’s not a hard leap, Lestrade.”

“How do you know my name?” Greg looked up from the body and narrowed his eyes in Mary’s direction. It was true that John had introduced himself to the nurse but Greg hadn’t said anything besides offering for her to leave the room. So he was rather curious himself to know how she knew.

“I…I think Molly must have mentioned it.” Mary quickly covered, “She told me that she had to stay a bit longer because the both of you were coming. She must have said your name when she explained.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It hadn’t been an incredible deduction. In fact Sherlock found the explanation quite logical and had Lestrade and the other parties involved actually bothered to do their jobs, then it would have been easily discovered. As it was, he had ‘wowed’ the detective inspector all over again. It was infuriating to have to start over when he had trained Lestrade in his methods already. He knew that he would need to work harder to once again gain his trust, if the look the DI gave him after he had deduced that it was in fact the husband who had murdered his wife, was anything to go by. Tedious.

But the look John Watson had given him had filled Sherlock’s chest with a warmth he had forgotten. The look of awe on John’s face as Sherlock helped him piece together the clues had been so wonderful that Sherlock felt himself almost unwilling to leave the room at the end. He couldn’t believe how much he had missed that look or how much he had missed seeing John in the flesh. It was like a spark of pleasure that he didn’t know what to do with. A strange sensation that made him realize how much it hurt to be without John all these years.

Now while Greg was down the hall setting up further inquiries over his phone and Molly was booking an autopsy, he was left standing off to the side watching. The doors to the examination room opened once again to reveal John and he came up to stand next to Sherlock, his eyes trained on Greg down the hall.

“Guess it’s not a closed case after all,” he said, giving one of the warmest smiles Sherlock had ever seen. It was intoxicating and Sherlock found himself returning the look after only a few seconds in John’s company.

“It would have been easy enough to spot had they been looking for it. But money can buy silence from just about anyone,” Sherlock replied. He knew he should have been more careful to keep his identity a secret from John but it seemed impossible that the good doctor wouldn’t question his sanity as quickly as Molly had. It was easier to have him on the sidelines still believing Sherlock to be dead, rather than believe him both alive and in this appallingly short woman. Really, how did she manage at this height? Even John was slightly taller and that was something that Sherlock knew he would never get used too.

“You’re right. It usually can.” John leaned back against the wall that Sherlock was currently propped up against. “I have to say…that was amazing.”

“Really?” Sherlock couldn’t help the blush that covered his cheeks as he looked away. Something must have been out of sync in this body for it to be betraying him so easily. He missed his old body. It was easier for him to control the emotions that played out on his face.

“Quite extraordinary.” John continued, his smile steady. “In fact…you actually remind me of someone I used to know. He used to be able to look at someone and tell you their whole history. And what you did in there…it was extraordinary, really.”

“Not what people usually say,” Sherlock whispered before he could stop himself. He knew he shouldn’t be leaving hints but it was so easy to fall back into his old ways when he was around John.

This gave John pause, his smile fading from his lips as he looked Sherlock over. Sherlock could tell that he had caught the familiar response and was trying to understand what it meant. John had always been so easy to read and his eyes were even now clouding over with memories and hurt.

“What do people usually say?” he finally asked.

It was a test. Sherlock knew it was. John was testing him to know if what he would say next would be what he had said all those years ago. And while Sherlock wanted to say the exact same thing, he knew it would only upset John more. He had accidentally opened a wound that neither of them knew how to repair just yet. When he came back, he wanted it to be for good and in his own body, not this frumpy woman’s. He wanted John to see him, not this petite blonde who clearly didn’t have her life together. The clothes alone should have been enough to tell that story.

So he changed his reply, “Not anything nice.” He attempted to lighten the mood with a smile but was sure the look was failing him.

Of course the response he got from John was a bit of a surprise. “They would wouldn’t they.” His smile returned, even if some of the hurt remained in his eyes. “I’m sorry if this seems a bit odd but I feel like I know you.” John continued, “We didn’t happen to work together? I swear if we worked together I would have remembered someone as beautiful as you but then again, I’ve been told I don’t observe.”

Sherlock blinked. Did John just call him beautiful? Well that was definitely odd but then again he was in female form and John always did like the ladies. It was just strange for him to be directing that type of conversation towards Sherlock of all people. “No.” Sherlock replied. “We don’t know each other.”

“That’s good.” John said quickly, “I would have felt like an ass for forgetting you. Have you worked at Bart’s long? I could have sworn I knew most of the nurses. Unless you were on leave of some sort or just transferred back.”

Sherlock turned his attention away from Lestrade and completely focused on John now. It was strange to have this type of attention placed on him. And while five years ago it would have been unwanted, he found he didn’t much mind John asking questions. “I’m new.” He said, trying to come up with some sort of backstory to Molly’s sudden choice of occupation. To be fair, Sherlock hadn’t the slightest clue what Mary did outside of shacking up with married men. For all he knew, she could be a nurse. “Just moved here.”

“Ah. Well, London is the heart of England and an amazing place if you can afford it.” John replied, smile growing as they slipped into an easy conversation. “Did you and your husband move here from the country?”

Sherlock couldn’t help his eyes from narrowing slightly. It was a very telling question and while he wanted to ignore the implications another part of him wanted to bask in the knowledge that John wanted to know if he was married.

“No husband.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“…Girlfriend?”

“I’m not attached.”

This seemed to give John more steam, having ruled out that Sherlock was attached to anyone and thus single.

“Like me then. Good.”

“Good?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. When they had first met, the questions had been nothing more than an annoyance and an easy way to place boundaries but now that he knew John, it was surprisingly welcome.  Which in itself was a strange feeling for Sherlock.

“I mean, it’s good you can afford to live in London on your own. It’s hard to find a place if you’re just starting out and I imagine lots of places wanted to take advantage of the fact you’re alone. Some people can be real shifty, especially when they have lower rent costs. But it sounds like you’ve found a place where you don’t have to worry. Which is good. Took me several months before I found a place.”

“And is that place taking advantage of you being single Doctor Watson? Or did you manage to find a place you felt you weren’t being taken advantage of?”

John chuckled, seemingly amused by the fact Sherlock had turned things around to make John sound like the defenseless young woman he’d only seconds ago made Mary out to be. “If I’m completely honest, I think it’s me who’s taking advantage. The place I’m in now I used to rent with a friend but he passed away. The landlady insisted I stay on even though I couldn’t afford it alone. She said the other half of the rent was already being looked after and that she wanted me to stay on because she couldn’t bear to rent to anyone else.”

“That must have been difficult.” Sherlock said, not sure exactly how to extend comfort at this point or if John would want it. He’d been dead three years in John’s eyes, surely he was over Sherlock’s death at this point.

The trace of pain returned to John’s eyes for a few seconds but he blinked it away quickly enough that Sherlock only briefly saw it. “It was. I honestly didn’t think I could stay on, what with all the memories attached to the place but she insisted and I caved. In any case, it’s a great location.” This seemed to signal the end of their conversation and John straightened up, standing taller with his shoulders back. It looked like he was pulling himself out of the memory and trying to refocus on whatever it was they had been talking about before things had turned to Sherlock’s death.

“Mary,” John’s smile was once again back as he addressed her, “I was wondering if you might like to go to dinner with me.”

All of Sherlock’s functions seemed to crash at this, his mind coming to a slamming halt.

His eyes widened. Was John Watson asking him out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a nurse or doctor. Nor a detective. But I tried to be. This is the result and it is probably alarmingly inaccurate but I tried to make it seem plausible and interesting. So forgive me for that. Also, there is a huge gap between chapter one and two because honestly, I didn't think I would ever get chapter two out. But since I had most of it already written on my computer, I decided to post it. Hope you liked it.

**Author's Note:**

> First attempt and wildly inaccurate at points. Be gentle.


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